


Four Seasons

by sambethe



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Swan Secret Santa 2016, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9060817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sambethe/pseuds/sambethe
Summary: Four seasons. Four windows on life between the storybook pages.





	1. Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr user @captainswan4e. I actually built, for once, a group of photosets to go with each of the chapters here. You can head over to my tumblr to take a look.

They marry on a Tuesday in July. Emma would’ve been happy with a courthouse and Killian, accompanied by her parents and Henry. But Snow looked so elated when she found out about the proposal that Emma couldn’t bear the thought of denying her or her father yet another milestone. Or denying herself for that matter.

Killian tells her he’ll follow her lead.

They hold the ceremony and a small party afterwards in their backyard. She thinks it’s fitting, her first real home should be the place where she and Killian say out loud what it is they are – and will be – to one another. She grants free reign to Snow and Ruby to plan the details, and when she steps out onto the back porch and finds the yard awash with candles and fairy lights, small paper birds floating among them, she nearly cries.

She reigns it in only to find it a lost cause when she steps onto the grass and can see Killian waiting for her under the tree, the toe of his boot worrying a groove into the grass until Belle leans in and whispers to him. The awestruck look that washes over his face as he looks up leaves her breathless and smiling through her tears. It takes Henry’s hand on her elbow once she makes it to the tree, and his knowing smirk, to steady her.

She leans her head into his for a moment. “Thanks, kid.”

*

Killian doesn’t tell her about the honeymoon. To be sure, they’d talked about the idea of it, but then something would happen in town or at the station and Emma would talk herself out of stealing time away from everything.

So he enlists the aid of Henry and David. Henry navigates him through the process of booking passage to a place where he could rent a ship, leaving the Jolly in his and Belle’s capable hands. They map courses and find places to dock along away. David agrees to serve as his line of defense, to assure Emma that he, Snow, and Regina will have a handle on things, to remind her that she can be Emma in addition to being the Savior.

And argue she does when Henry arrives the afternoon after the wedding with several papers that include their tickets, but her protests weaken as Henry scrolls through the photos he’s saved to his phone. Then Snow arrives with an empty suitcase and shuffles both Killian and Emma upstairs and sets them to packing. He’s intensely grateful when he sees Emma’s small smile as she peruses the garments she has hanging in their closet. When she catches him staring, her smile widens and he gives her a wink.

And while a small regret runs through him when they arrive at a sailboat that’s not the Jolly Roger, Killian has to admit she’s perfect in her own right. It’s just the two of them and open waters, white sand beaches, and the occasional isolated hotel room along the way. And it’s hard to be anything but happy when he gets to spend as much time charting her skin as he does their meandering course.


	2. Fall

September rolls in and with it comes her parents’ anniversary - depending on how you counted, either their 35th or their 7th. Emma and Henry decide they don’t much care which it is, it’s been quiet in Storybrooke for months and they deserve a celebration that doesn’t come as a bookend to another battle fought.

They talk of keeping it low key, but then Doc overhears them and next thing Emma knows she’s watching her son and the dwarf hunch over endless numbers of sketches of the town square replete in tents and strings of lights. Granny drops by their table the following night, leaving behind menu options and giving Emma a look that clearly conveys she isn’t going to brook an argument about being involved. When Belle and Ashley follow with ideas for table decorations and plans for music, she glances over to Killian who merely shakes his and says, “no use fighting all of them, love.” It’s when Regina shows up at the house though, purportedly dropping off a textbook Henry forgot, and announces she’ll be providing the dessert – Nothing with apples, I swear – that Emma knows it is of absolutely no use arguing about keeping it small.

She has to admit that the end result is gorgeous. Strings of round, glass bulbs crisscrossing the square, tents in red and gold reflecting the light, Neal and the other children weaving through the tables, the ribboned flags they carry streaming behind them. The entire town must be there, littering the tables and filling the dance floor. But it is the happiness that exudes from her parents, watching them talk with their friends, the pink of Snow’s cheeks as she works on her third drink, that makes Emma proudest.

Killian comes up behind her as she watches, his arms circling her waist as he places a kiss to the side of her head. “You’ve done a wonderful job.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t do a thing. Everyone –”

“Nonsense,” he says, rubbing his nose at her ear. “Everyone loves your parents. You provided them the opportunity to show them how much.”

*

As autumn deepens and the weather turns, Emma finds their porch and windows littered with an increasing number of pumpkins and flower pots bursting with a riot of mums in all their various colors. The first year Killian had moved in, he’d just done a few pots at the base of the front stairs. It had made her smile, the bright yellows and pinks amidst the brown of decaying leaves.

Each year since, their number and elaborateness grows. Green and white pumpkins find their way next to their plain orange brethren, and kales and cabbages creep in with the flowers. She thinks to comment, to tease, but when she finds him he’s at the work bench in the garage, pots and soil and plants scattered before him, humming along to a playlist Henry has made him. His hips sway and she bites back a smile, leaning against the door jamb to just watch.

“Enjoying yourself, love?” he asks after a few minutes.

“Perhaps.”

He turns and moves towards her, stepping into her space and pressing her against the doorway. “I must be losing my touch,” he says, his fingers threading along her scalp and angling her head up, drawing her lips to within a hair’s breadth of his. “I’ve always thought you loved how I danced.”

“Maybe you need to remind me.” She leans in to close the gap but he pulls back, a smirk playing at his mouth.

He crouches down and circles his hands below her ass, lifting her over his shoulder with a laugh. “Oh, princess,” he drawls and she’s sure the grin he’s wearing would be full of promise. “You should know better than to tease a pirate.”

*

Apple picking and pumpkin patches. This season sometimes feels like a perverse joke given her family history. Then one day Henry comes home with a flyer advertising guided tours at a nearby horse farm, all giddy smiles and babbling about cider at the end of the ride, and she thinks maybe there is hope after all.

She hasn’t been on a horse since Camelot and she blushes when she thinks of her and Killian in a field of middlemist. She settles on her horse and turns to find him, the eyebrow waggle he offers when she catches his eye leaves her with no doubt as to where his mind has gone as well.

“Easy, tiger,” she warns as she gives him a grin.

His responding smile can only be described as sly. “Don’t worry about me. I plan to just admire the view.”

“Stop being gross,” Henry calls, rolling his eyes as he maneuvers his horse past the two of them, and turns his attention to the guide in front of them.

She’s young, maybe a year or two older than Henry, dark hair pulled into a high ponytail, face full of freckles, and dressed in a warm, blue flannel. Emma smiles as Henry asks her a question about the trail they’re about to start down.

Killian juts his chin towards the two of them as he pulls up alongside Emma. “Something tells me there was more to Henry’s enthusiasm than the promise of horseback riding and cider.”

She laughs. “Apparently.”


	3. Winter

December greets Storybrooke twelve inches of snow no one asked for and, worse yet, no one predicted. All of which leaves Emma caught out on patrol when it starts coming down, and by the time she’s tromping up the front steps she looks like a drown rat. The portions of her hair not covered by her beanie are thick and wet with snow, her jeans are decidedly damp, and her non-insulated gloves might as well not be on her hands at all.

She contemplates just dropping to the porch and waiting for her demise, but then Killian opens the front door and he and his sweater look too warm and inviting not to take those last few steps forward. He’s holding a mug of tea in his hand and has a large bath towel thrown over his shoulder, and Emma doesn’t know which she wants first. She pushes the door closed behind her, taking the offered mug with one hand and holding her other out to him so he can peel off the sopping glove. They repeat the process with her other glove before he turns his attention to her hat and then her boots and socks. By the time she’s stripped down to just her sweater and underwear, she’s drank half the mug and is feeling nearly human again.

Killian lets her finish the tea before he’s pulling her up the stairs and drawing a bath. While he’s distracted testing the temperature of the water, she steps behind him, hands slipping down his sides to the hem of his sweater and tugging up. He turns and raises his arms without argument, hands dropping to his belt when she’s done, undressing without a word.

She rests one hand on his knee once they are in the water, her tucked against his chest and his hand slung low on her belly. She traces a line up and back down the inside of his thigh, listening to him hum low in her ear and thinks that she’d be content to spend the rest of winter right here in this tub.

*

It’s dark by the time she leaves the station, though it is barely 5:00 PM. When she arrives home she finds most of the house also dark, though there are candles burning in every window and two flanking each of the front steps. She furrows her brow at the quiet of the house as she unwinds her scarf from her neck, the only sound the hiss of the radiators heating.

She eventually finds Killian in the study on the third floor, sitting in the window seat, a book in hand despite the only light in the room coming from the candle beside him. “You’ll go blind reading like that,” she says, sitting down next to him.

He chuckles and slips a notecard between the pages, closing the book. “Do you think there is much electricity at sea?” he whispers against her ear as he leans in to brush a kiss to her temple.

She shakes her head as she turns, nosing along his cheek until her lips find his. They trade a few soft kisses that leave her breathless none the less and when they break, she stays close, scratching her fingers at the overlong hair at the nape of his neck. She means to ask about the candles, but then he hums and her other hand drops to his chest, fingers seeking skin beneath the open placket of his shirt.

It’s only after, still curled in his lap on the chair behind his desk that she remembers. “What’s with all the candles?” she asks, tracing her thumb at his collarbone.

He curves his hand at her hip, dipping his thumb into the crease of her thigh. “My mother used to have this tradition, she would light candles in the windows on the longest night of the year. It was something her own mother had done. She never told Liam or me why, but I always loved how it looked.” He pauses and shifts his hand to run along her belly. “I’d forgotten about it until I overheard your mother explaining solstice to Neal. I thought it might be something we could…”

She smiles as he trails off, laying her hand over his. She doesn’t quite remember how long it was before her body showed signs of Henry growing within her. She wonders if – _hopes that_ – this one might show sooner, a small reassurance that this will be ok.

“I’d like that,” she says and can feel Killian’s smile in the kiss he presses to her head.

*

January ends with another twelve inches of snow. Emma wants to grumble but then the first week of February adds two more feet and she and David decide to route the stations’s calls to their cell phones and she’s able to coordinate snow plows from the comfort of her couch. Snow, she decides, can be quite beautiful if she only has to watch it from her windows.

She gets to spend three days at home with only Killian for company. Snow, she also decides, is quite welcome when she can only spy it from where she’s laid out on the floor, Killian’s hands running down her bare back. They haven’t told anyone about the baby, except for Henry. Given the town’s history and Emma being, well, Emma, it seems the best course. So each evening alone with Killian’s head resting on a pillow at her side, him whispering stories to her stomach, feels like a gift bestowed.


	4. Spring

It’s been raining for a solid week and she hasn’t heard from Henry since it started. She knows she shouldn’t worry, she knows what it’s like to need time away from Storybrooke, from well-meaning family. He’s nineteen and needs to forge his own path, but still, Emma misses him like crazy. The house is anything but quiet, Ellie and Cate make noise enough for seven, but it’s different. She misses him rushing through the door with some new mission for them, having someone insult her lack of skill at the Xbox, finding him and Killian plotting something across the kitchen island.

Killian slides behind where she stands at that same island, his hand slipping across her hip and down to the hem of her sleep shorts. “Stop worrying, love,” he whispered into her shoulder. He nosed the collar of her t-shirt aside and skated his mouth along the juncture of her neck and shoulder with a wet glide. 

“I’m not –”

“You’re not usually up this early and have been checking your phone every ten minutes.” He punctuates the end of his sentence with a nip to her ear as his hook slides low against her belly and she huffs a small laugh before pressing back against him.

“He’s fine.”

“I know,” she says, turning in his hold and resting her cheek on his bare chest.

Killian slips his hand and hook down under her ass. “Come back upstairs. Let me distract you for a bit.”

She hums and turns to press a kiss to his breastbone, her hands curling to rest on his hips. “The girls?”

“In Ellie’s room. Watching Frozen.”

She smiles and glances up at him. “So we have a good twenty minutes until their next fight?”

“Exactly,” he replies, a promising grin spreading across his lips. “Let’s go.”

*

Family dinners these days take almost military precision to plan, and Emma’s more than happy to cede control of the kitchen to Snow and Regina. Cooking for herself or the girls is still not her strong suit and Killian’s just picky enough that she’s long since left it to him to see them all fed. So while she and Killian open their home to the twelve of them each week, plus whatever stragglers her mother or Killian pick up, she leaves it to the others to plan out the meal. 

Instead, she takes it as her charge, with her father, to entertain her brothers and sister along with her daughters – whether it is a sing-a-long or story time in the living room or practicing with swords or playing tag in the backyard. 

But tonight Henry is home – _finally_ – after months away and she sits on the back steps watching the kids circle and follow him around like ducklings. 

“They adore him,” comes Regina’s voice from behind her.

She doesn’t turn but knows she must be wearing the same proud, satisfied smile she is. “They do,” she confirms. “How long do you think we have him for?”

Regina sits next to her and hands her a wine glass. “He says he’s planning to stay until orientation.”

She sighs and takes a large gulp of her drink. “I’m not ready.”

“Neither am I.”

*

It’s a rare morning that she’s up before everyone else. She thinks to turn and snuggle back into Killian, to wake him with slow, steady touches, but the dark smudges beneath his eyes stop her. She knows he was out late with his father, searching the woods for signs of the werewolf they’ve had reports of. They’ve sent messages to Ruby in Oz for advice, but are still waiting on a reply.

She makes herself a cup of coffee and settles on the front porch. It’s May and it’s still chill and damp, but the air smells of wet, green earth and the lilacs Killian has planted along the fence. It grounds her in a way she wouldn’t have thought possible less than a decade ago.

Emma draws her mug up to her nose and breathes deep before taking her first sip. It’s warm and bitter and she can almost feel the caffeine unfurl deep in her bones as she swallows. Behind her, she can hear the sounds of her family beginning to wake as she continues to nurse her drink. She means to join them, but first she just wants to sit and watch the sun continue to rise and bathe the street and their yard with warm, golden light.


End file.
